


Comfort and Joy

by MarieKavanagh



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas Eve, Gen, Hey look I wrote something Regulus-centric!, Hurt/Comfort, Poor wee boy, Regulus is just trying to hold it together, Sickfic, Sirius's last Christmas at home :(, The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, the black family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:02:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28288152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarieKavanagh/pseuds/MarieKavanagh
Summary: All fourteen-year-old Regulus Black wants for Christmas is a chance to relax and unwind at home for the school holidays. But with his elder brother's rebellion against their parents in full swing and the atmosphere within Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place becoming frostier by the day, it seems that not even the season of tidings of comfort and joy can bring Regulus the rest he craves.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 66





	Comfort and Joy

It had begun with a headache. He’d awoken in his dormitory bed that morning with a slight ache, but over the course of the day it had deepened to a sharp, throbbing pain behind his eyes which made even the dim light of the Hogwarts Express compartment seem intensely bright. Regulus had, of course, stifled his discomfort and had kept up the impression that all was well as the train chugged its way down the length of the country from the Highlands of Scotland towards London, delivering its cargo of Hogwarts students home for the Christmas holidays. 

“I say, you alright there, old boy?” asked Hugo Flint, Regulus’s fellow Fourth Year Slytherin, as Regulus squinted painfully as a sharp ray of sunlight shot through the clouds and into his eyes. Flint had an annoying, lofty habit of attempting to emulate a manner of speaking similar to that of their fathers, rather irritating Regulus with his overuse of old-fashioned pet names such as “old boy” or “dear chap” in his attempts to sound mature beyond his fourteen years. 

But it wouldn’t do to say as much. That would mean being seen to be complaining, to create a scene, kick up a fuss. And Blacks were above such petty displays. 

_Or_ most _of them were, at least,_ Regulus thought to himself. 

“Yes, of course, perfectly fine” Regulus was quick to assure his classmate as he gave his eyes a discrete rub - nowhere near the intense massaging he craved in an attempt to soothe their soreness. “Just a little tired, is all. I’ll be glad to get to London” 

It was indeed a relief to disembark the train when it reached its destination at last. A sharp, icy blast of December air washing over his face as he stepped onto the crowded platform at Kings Cross provided a moment of relief to Regulus’s aching head before he was swept away in the surge of students heading for the crowd of parents at the far end of the platform waiting to collect their children. 

Regulus’s tired eyes looked past the crowd - he knew perfectly well his own parents would not be standing amongst the clusters of eager-looking mothers and fathers trying to pinpoint their children in the crowd of students. Orion and Walburga Black had no wish to associate themselves with such people, nor did they hold with such public displays of emotion. It was not the Black way. 

At some point during his walk along the platform, Regulus found himself joined by his elder brother. Sirius had emerged from the crowd of students, no doubt having shared a reluctant, pained goodbye with those friends of his, and had silently slunk up beside Regulus to join him on his journey. Regulus stole a sideways glance up at his brother, but quickly looked away upon seeing his stormy expression. From the grim look on his face, you’d have thought Sirius was being marched to the gallows.

As they approached their parents, stood side by side in front of the barrier wall with matching expressions of quiet expectation which so starkly contrasted the delighted grins and shouts of the rest of the parents on the platform as they embraced their returned children, Regulus realised he was not going to get so much as a “Hi, Reg” from the brother he had not run into for many days.

At school, Sirius did not go out of his way to run into his little brother, nowadays. But then, Regulus supposed, neither did he trouble himself to seek out Sirius. It wasn’t as though Sirius would have been pleased to see him if he did, after all. 

Any momentary feeling of disappointment at Sirius’s lack of greeting was soon replaced by a strong sense of relief. If Sirius was in a quiet mood, that would hopefully mean there was less chance of him immediately launching into a furious shouting match with their mother. 

The situation at home had steadily become more and more tense over the last year, and Regulus had come to expect at least one explosive argument to erupt within the house at some point or other with each school holiday that the two brothers returned home to Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. And as he recalled the chilling memory of the fight which had ruined last year’s Christmas dinner, Regulus knew all too well not to expect the season of peace and goodwill to offer any chance that his brother would put aside his seeming thirst for a fight for the sake of a happy Christmas.

With his mother’s claw-like grip on his shoulder firmly steering him through the platform barrier, Regulus stole a quick rub to his sore temple and hoped against hope that his headache would subside before the inevitable shouting commenced. With a clear head, he could just about bear it. He had little choice in the matter. 

* * *

As the next day dawned, Regulus was dismayed to find that not only had his headache not gone away, but if anything it had begun to worsen. And to add to his troubles, he had awoken feeling curiously achy all over. An act as simple as lifting his teacup at breakfast had left him feeling as though he’d lifted a paving slab with one arm, and though he’d slept fitfully that night, he found himself drooping with fatigue. He could have carried on sleeping right through the morning, if he hadn’t been expected downstairs for breakfast promptly at eight.

He sat bolt upright in his seat at the table, hiding his aches and pains, forcing down the toast and eggs that he really didn’t feel like eating - the image of the exemplary Black son.

“Sit up straight, Sirius Orion” 

The sharpness of their mother’s words made Regulus flinch on instinct, as though they’d been intended for him. 

He glanced anxiously across the table to his elder brother who sat slouched across the table with his chin resting in his palm. Regulus had been surprised that Sirius had appeared at breakfast at all; he'd developed an irritating habit over the past year of attempting to sleep as late as he could get away with before their mother intervened. 

There was a tense moment in which Regulus waited, breath held, to see whether the shouting would come. A moment seemed to last a lifetime whilst the occupants of the table (save for Orion, who's gaze remained firmly fixed downward at his copy of the morning's Prophet rather than on the battle of wills between his wife and son) waited for Sirius's reaction. But to Regulus's relief, Sirius simply scowled darkly cross the table at Walburga and silently hoisted himself up straight in his seat. 

Regulus breathed a discrete sigh of relief, but winced in pain as Sirius spitefully clattered his silverware against the bone china crockery with deliberate force, further aggravating his headache. 

It was a small price to pay for an otherwise peaceful meal. Christmas was only two short days away, and the longer the Walburga and Sirius could go without descending into a state of civil war, the better chance they had of a peaceful Christmas. 

As the day wore on, Regulus found that the fatigue’s grip on his body had began to tighten. His limbs felt heavy, his head throbbed painfully, and by that evening, he’d found himself completely unable to get himself properly warm. He'd spent the majority of the day in the library, huddled close to the fireplace with his mind buried deep within in the books he’d surrounded himself with to distract himself from how much he ached. He hoped that if he took it easy today, stayed out of sight and rested, he would shake off whatever illness this was in time for Christmas. 

He had to be on top form for Christmas. It wasn’t an option to allow himself to be otherwise. The family's annual Christmas Eve party was almost upon them, and with Sirius no doubt all set to put on his best sullen demeanour for the occasion, it fell to Regulus to pick up the slack and ensure that the family was given an assurance that at least one of its sons took the family image seriously.

The thought made Regulus burn with irritation. He fought to keep his disapproving frown from materialising on his face as he glanced across the table at his brother. Why couldn't Sirius just play his part? Why did he always leave it all to Regulus to make up for his selfish antics? It wasn't fair.

That evening, the thick, winter evening robes Regulus had dressed in did little to keep him from shivering at the dinner table. He may as well have come to dinner in nothing but his under things, for all the warmth there was to be found in his heavy clothes. 

Were the robes truly meant to be this heavy? The material was thick and warm, but surely something as simple as a pair of sleeves ought not to feel as though Regulus had weights tied to his arms.

Amidst the silence of the dinner table, broken only by the dull tap of cutlery against china, Regulus fought to keep his trembling hands steady as he took a sip of watered wine from his goblet in an effort to soothe the soreness that had taken hold of his throat over the course of the day. The glass chattered against his teeth in a most unbecoming manner as he drank, and he raised his eyes worriedly to check if anyone had noticed his slip up.

As always, Orion’s eyes were trained firmly down at his food, with an absent expression which suggested his mind was far away, most likely upstairs in the study where a good deal of important work awaited him the minute they’d finished eating. Christmas may only be two days away, but Regulus knew that there was never any let up in the urgent matters which required his father’s attention. Why else would he spend so much of his time shut away upstairs?

Equally unaware of her younger son’s current state, Walburga’s stern gaze was, as ever, fixated on Sirius, who moodily pushed bits of his venison around on the plate without actually eating them. 

“Finish your food, Sirius Orion” Walburga ordered. 

“I’ve had enough” Sirius muttered back, staring down at his plate. 

“Nonsense. You’ve barely eaten half of your venison. Finish it, now” 

“I know when I’m full,” Sirius’s voice began to raise. “I’m not eating any more” 

“Stop behaving so childishly" Walburga’s sharp tone was loud enough to match her son’s. She set down her knife and fork, ready for a fight. "Enough of this foolishness, now. Finish your food"

Sirius dropped his own fork down onto his plate with a head-shattering clatter. 

“What part of ‘I’m full’ don’t you understand?!” 

And there it was. The first proper argument of the holiday. A delayed arrival, but arrived, nonetheless. Regulus gripped his fork tight in his hand and closed his eyes in an attempt to block out the shouting which swirled around his throbbing head as his mother and brother hurled angry words back and forth across the table at one another. He was used to this - to making himself small, still and silent during such moments.. 

At the very least, Regulus thought to himself as he swayed ever so slightly in a sudden bout of dizziness before catching hold of himself, his mother’s attentions being focused solely on her rebellious elder son meant that Regulus’s own slip ups in what an impeccably behaved Black son ought to look like were allowed to go unnoticed. 

* * *

Christmas Eve dawned with a sharp chill in the air - both outside and within the walls of Grimmauld Place. 

As Regulus slowly drifted out of his deep slumber, his blurry vision focused on the clock on his bedside table. 

Twenty-past eight. 

Panic surged through him, sending him leaping out of bed in spite of the shots of pain which ran through his aching body as he stood up. He’d overslept. How could he have overslept? He’d gone to bed so early last night. How could he still be so tired? 

Fighting through the waves of dizziness and throbbing of his head, Regulus pulled on a set of robes as quickly as he could and rushed downstairs, composing his apologies in his head for being late for breakfast as he descended through the levels of the house. 

In the end, he need not have bothered. As he entered the dining room, he was immediately confronted with the noise of his mother and brother’s bickering. The topic of this morning’s disagreement was Sirius’s attendance at the family’s annual Christmas Eve party.

“Of course you’ll be attending, Sirius Orion, it’s Christmas Eve!” Walburga said sharply as Regulus quietly slipped into the room and took his place at the vacant chair opposite his brother. He mumbled the quietest of “good morning"s - if anyone had heard it over Sirius’s loud protests that he thought the party was a waste of his time, they neglected to offer a reply - and poured himself a cup of tea. The hot liquid soothed the pain in his throat, at least. 

In spite of his complete lack of appetite, Regulus forced himself to nibble at the corner of a piece of toast for appearances' sake and silently prayed for the strength to get through the day. If Sirius’s word was to be believed - and for all his failings, Sirius was never one to make idle threats so far as his dedication to showing up the family was concerned - Regulus was going to need to take centre stage tonight. The annual Christmas Eve bash was notorious for playing host to not only the extended Black family, but also to many esteemed guests; friends of the family and business acquaintances, but also members of rival families from within the pureblood elite who would no doubt relish the opportunity to find fault in their family through Sirius’s poor display. 

That could not be allowed to happen, Regulus told himself firmly as he forced down another mouthful of tea. 

“I don’t give a damn about what people will think!” Sirius shouted as he stood up from the table and headed for the door. “I’m not going to your stupid bloody party, and that’s final!” 

Walburga let out a furious, angry roar of a noise and hurled a shot of red sparks from her wand towards the door Sirius had bolted through. As the door slammed shut, the holly wreath hanging against the wood took the full brunt of the shot. It fell to the floor, shattering the glass baubles and scattering stray holly leaves across the floor.

Regulus flinched at the noise. He knew perfectly well that the spells their mother hurled at Sirius in such moments were harmless. A gesture of anger - deep, overflowing anger for which Sirius had a particular talent for providing the point of overspill. They were a threatening display which could perhaps give a firm shove to whoever might be in their way, but could not actually hurt.

In any case, Walburga’s aim always seemed to veer suspiciously off-target, never once actually hitting her supposed mark. 

The three remaining Blacks continued their breakfast in tense silence. Orion, who had not emerged from behind his newspaper throughout the entire scene, remained hidden from view. Walburga’s eyes glared furiously across at her husband for a moment before turning back down to her plate. She seemed not to notice her younger son at all, let alone display any intention of speaking to him. Regulus was glad of it. From the way his throat seemed to have swollen in just the short time he’d been awake, he wasn’t certain he’d have been able to speak properly if spoken to.

* * *

Breathing was hard. Each lungful of air sent shockwaves of pain through Regulus’s chest. His throat felt as though he had a sharp stone wedged deep inside it, his head still throbbed, and he was cold. So cold. He’d layered himself in several thick undershirts beneath the heavy dress robes his mother had laid out for him to wear to the party that evening, and still he shivered, his goose-bumped skin feeling uncomfortably sensitive against the fleecy cotton of the shirt.

Before heading downstairs to join the rest of the family, he stole a glance at himself in his bedroom mirror. His already-porcelain skin and blanched a ghostly shade of white. Strands of his hair clung damply to his forehead and he could see shadows forming under his eyes. What a state to have to appear in. He wished he were old enough to know know how to perform a masking spell of some sort, but with such a thing well out of his reach, he conceded that this was as good as it was going to get. 

To appear in a less than ideal state was still far better than to not appear at all.

He wanted to sleep. He wanted nothing more than to collapse into bed and allow unconsciousness to relieve him of everything which hurt, but this was far from an option. It was Christmas Eve. Kreacher had spent hours decking out the house in garlands of holly and ivy, floating decorative candles drifted in the air high above them, and the smell of roast goose wafted thickly through every room of the house. 

Shortly before six o'clock, the whole family stood lined up before the Floo fireplace, as bedecked in their finery as the house itself, ready to greet their guests for the evening.

The whole family - including Sirius. For all his creating and sulking earlier in the day, Regulus’s elder brother had shrugged on the dress robes their mother had laid out for him and stomped his way downstairs from his room to stand in line with the rest of his family, awaiting the arrival of the first of the visitors. 

Regulus stole a glance across to his brother standing beside him. Sirius’s face was thunderous. He may be here, as expected, but his stormy expression assured anyone who looked at him that he had no desire whatsoever to be here. A sour greeting for whoever stepped through that fireplace.

Regulus wiped a hand across his clammy forehead. Why was he sweating? He was so cold. 

“Will you wipe that ghastly look off of your face, Sirius Orion!” Walburga hissed across at Sirius. “What sort of thing is that going to say to our guests?”

“The truth” Sirius shot back, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. “That this party is a pompous load of bollocks and that I want to see them even less than they want to see me” 

Regulus’s heart sank. Now he’d done it. Their mother’s temper had been teetering on a knife edge all day, but for Sirius to come out with such a remark so close to the guests arriving had pushed it firmly and irretrievably over the edge. 

“I’ve had just about enough of you!” Walburga shrieked, rounding on her son. “I will not have you making a fool of yourself and this family this evening!” 

“Then why are you making me go to this damned party?!” Sirius shouted back. “It’s all rubbish! Every year, this whole party is the exact same load of over-the-top, cringe-worthy crap and I want no bloody part in it!” 

The angry shouts of his mother and brother swam round and round inside Regulus’s aching head. His father’s voice was added to the mix - a fight breaking out between his wife and son when anyone might step through the fireplace at any moment had roused Orion into a rare display of intervention. 

The shrieks of his mother, the shouts of his brother, and the sharp ordering of his father for them both to cease. They all blurred into one, the noise hammering away at Regulus’s head until he could stand it no more. He couldn't take it. It was too much. He needed to get out.

He tried to turn away to leave the room, but the moment he did, an intense wave of dizzy exhaustion washed over him and he felt himself crumpling to a heap on the floor. 

The last thing Regulus was aware of before the blissful silence of oblivion claimed him was that his mother’s shouting was no longer directed at Sirius, but at him. 

* * *

  
He was warm. Properly warm, at last. That was the first thought that came to mind as he drifted out of a deep sleep. He swallowed, hesitantly, and found that the rock-sized lump in his throat was gone. A soreness lingered, but it was a vast improvement on before. 

Regulus blinked his eyes open and found that he was in a darkened room - his room. Beneath the bedcovers, he could feel the material of a fresh set of pyjamas covering him. In a heap on the floor, he could see the clothes he’d been wearing; the dress robes and layers of undershirts, ready for Kreacher to collect for cleaning later. Across from his bed, a tiny chink of light filtered into the room via the gap underneath the door. He could hear the low hum of activity from several floors down; chattering, laughter, celebrations. The party. He was missing the party! 

He fought to try and sit up, but found that the bedcovers were tucked tightly around him, hindering his feeble efforts. That was curious. He couldn't recall having been tucked into bed in such a way for years. He only knew of one person had ever been so efficient in their tucking, and she was- 

As if on cue, the bedroom door swung open, revealing the statuesque form of Walburga Black, still dressed in her crimson party gown with matching ruby jewellery.

“Mother” Regulus croaked, squinting in the light as he attempted once again to sit up. “I’m sorry, I-” 

“Lay still” 

Walburga’s voice was calm, and quiet. Regulus obeyed on instinct, falling back against his pillows. In truth, it was something of a relief to be told to stay down. He felt better than he had done before, but he was still weak and tired.

He watched as his mother closed the door behind her, returning the room to comfortable darkness. She strode forward to stand beside the bed and stared down at her son with a look of sharp searching. But there was something else, lingering beneath. A sense of annoyance which instantly filled Regulus with regret. 

“I’m sorry” he felt obliged to say. He spoke in little more than a whisper, in an attempt to spare his throat. 

“I should think so” 

The bluntness of his mother’s voice filled Regulus with fresh shame. She was disappointed in him. It was clear to see. His heart sank deep into his chest.

“I know I ought to be down at the party” Regulus continued, the hurriedness of his words allowing a scratchy croak to sneak into the forefront of his voice. “I should have tried harder. But I’m feeling better now, really. I’ll downstairs in a few-”

His fresh struggles to sit up were stilled by his mother swiftly pressing a hand to his shoulder. 

“You’ll do no such thing” she hissed lowly. Regulus allowed himself to be pressed back against the pillows once more. He practically shrank under his mother’s stern gaze. 

Walburga conjured a chair with her wand and sat down at her son’s bedside. A move which indicated to Regulus that his mother clearly was not satisfied with his meagre apologies and was waiting for him to properly explain his disgraceful display.

“I’m sorry, Mother” he offered, again. “Really. I- I know I’ve let the family down, but I-” 

“Regulus Arcturus Black, what are you prattling on about?” 

Regulus was taken aback by his mother’s question. He paused, confused. 

“For being ill” he offered, timidly. 

Walburga’s eyes widened in shock. 

“You are sorry for being ill?” she repeated in disbelief. 

Regulus froze. Why wasn’t she satisfied with his apology? 

“Why on earth would you have to apologise for being ill? Walburga asked, aghast.

“Because- because of the party” Regulus answered. “The guests… Everyone will be wondering where-” 

“They have been told, quite rightly, that you are under the weather, and that you send your apologies” Walburga replied, firmly. She observed her son silently for a moment, and then let out a sigh and shook her head. “You foolish child… What made you think we would expect you to be up and about when you are so clearly unwell?” 

Regulus flushed - not from fever, which seemed to have now diminished, but from shame. He did indeed feel foolish, his reasoning suddenly sounding really rather stupid, even in his own head.

But he was not accustomed to leaving a question from his elders and betters unanswered. 

“The need to uphold the family image” he mumbled, his gaze directed firmly down at the bed covers. “I needed to be there, to give a good impression to the guests, what with Sirius being so… so…” 

He trailed off, unable to find the right word to finish his sentence. Unwilling? Rebellious? Irritating in his determination to make a mockery of himself and the family by association? There was no end to the options available with which Regulus might wish to describe his elder brother. 

“Sirius Orion’s failings are not for you to concern yourself with” Walburga told her younger son, her voice laced with irritation as she spoke of Sirius. “It is my affair to deal with him. It is your affair to see to your own conduct. And I do not think that attending the Christmas party in such a state of ill health would be upholding the family image, now, would it?” 

“No…” Regulus agreed, unwilling to look up at his mother. “I’m sorry” 

Walburga let out a sigh and shook her head down at her son. 

She reached down and pressed a hand to his forehead. 

“Cooler, now” she remarked. “The healing tonic seems to have done it’s work” 

Realisation hit Regulus. He noticed the wooden box open on his bedside table - his mother’s potion box. She must have slipped some remedial potion into him after putting him to bed. No wonder he felt better. 

“You see?” Walburga gave her son a knowing look. “One simple potion, and you’re already on the mend. So there was really no need to hide your illness from me, was there?” 

It did seem foolish, in hindsight, Regulus realised. Why hadn’t he simply told his mother that he felt unwell when he’d first realised it? 

Because he didn’t want to make a fuss. Because he didn’t want to be seen to be complaining, to be shirking his duties. Because that wasn’t the Black way. And if his brother wasn’t going to uphold the family ways, then it all fell to his shoulders. 

“I’m sorry” he mumbled, yet again. 

“That’s quite enough apologising for one night,” Walburga chastised, though her voice was gentle. She began to tuck the bed covers around him again. “Now, I’ve given you a fairly strong dose of the tonic. It ought to continue its work through the night. I expect you ought to be well enough to get up by morning. And until then, I want you to rest. Do you understand?” 

Regulus nodded, and his mother gave him an ever-so-slight smile as she busily adjusted the pillows around his head. There was something rather comforting about her fussing. Something about her ordering him to rest which caused a fresh wave of exhaustion to wash over him. Perhaps it was her reassurance that it was okay - that it was expected of him to simply lay here and rest. Or perhaps it was the lingering remnants of his illness which had left him feeling truly exhausted. Either way, it was a relief to allow his eyelids to flutter closed at last. 

Suddenly, he felt a hand on his head. His mother’s hand, her slender fingers combing the damp strands of his hair away from his forehead. Her touch lingered, becoming what one could almost call a stroke. It was an alien sensation - not one he could recall ever having received from her, but that didn’t stop the gesture filling him with warmth from the inside out.

Regulus turned his head into the pillow and breathed a contented sigh.

As sleep began to approach, Regulus began to hear music from downstairs. It was the piano. 

As it did every year, the Christmas Eve party had evolved into an evening of carolling. Regulus wondered, as the tune of Hark, The Herald Angels Sing rang through the floors of the house, who had taken his usual place at the piano bench. 

Walburga seemed not to notice the music. She stayed put, keeping vigil at her younger son’s bedside with her fingers combing through his damp hair. Regulus thought this odd. His mother’s voice, for all she could shriek and scream with such viscous anger, was also capable of making beautiful music of its own. Each year, once the carolling had begun, Walburga was always called upon to sing a tune.

“You ought to go down” Regulus murmured, sleepily. “They’ll be missing you”

“They can wait” Walburga whispered in reply. 

Regulus gave a weak smile as he drifted back to sleep. The very last things he was aware of was of how comforting it was to have his mother beside him as he drifted off, and of the sound of far-off church bells chiming into the night to announce the arrival of Christmas Day.

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas all! Hope you enjoyed this little Christmas story. I've had requests for something Regulus-centric for a while and how convenient for inspiration to finally strike around the festive season? 
> 
> Hope you all have a nice Christmas and wishing you all a better 2021 <3


End file.
